


Pink Lips

by DarkImago



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Ginny Weasley, Bisexual Harry Potter, Canon Divergence, Cheating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Femslash, G-Spot, HP femslash, Infidelity, Lesbian Hermione Granger, Lesbian Pansy Parkinson, Love, One Shot, Oral Sex, Romance, Ron is a good guy, Smut, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting, pansmione angst, pansmione fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23080921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkImago/pseuds/DarkImago
Summary: Ginny Weasley thinks that her friend Hermione Granger might be stuck in a rut, so she takes her to a Lesbian nightclub, Pink Lips, just for fun. Hermione knows it was a mistake when she bumps into her former nemesis, Pansy Parkinson, now a nightclub singer heading for stardom. What is the strange chemistry between them? How will it effect Hermione's relationship with her darling Ron? After all, they've only just got engaged...
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/own created character
Comments: 21
Kudos: 120





	1. Girls’ Night Out

**Author's Note:**

> This Pansmione story was inspired by, and is based on the very fine film 'Below Her Mouth', available on Netflix, and the adorable depictions of Hermione and Pansy by upthehillart on tumblr. My thanks for their excellent work.

Finally, they were officially engaged, and now that George and Angelina had moved into their new home with their growing family, Hermione and Ron were living together at last, in the cosy apartment above the shop at the top end of Diagon Alley. They were happy, their work sufficiently fulfilling, their free time sufficiently fun. So why did the witch who appeared to have everything feel a gnawing sense of frustration at inappropriate moments? Was she changing? What was making her change? Ron was the same as always, loving, funny, quidditch mad, helping George to live without his twin, and incidentally making the Weasley name as well known for ingenious jokes and novelties, as their sister Ginny was making it known for success in the world of professional Quidditch. 

Hermione missed Ginny when she was travelling and training with the Holyhead Harpies. When she was in town they liked to grab the occasional evening for themselves, often venturing out together into Muggle London and cutting loose, just the two of them, no Harry, no Ron, just dancing and drinking and talking, and occasionally a little harmless flirting with guys. They were open with each other in ways that only close girlfriends could be, friends who had grown up in adversity, faced danger together, faced first love, disappointment and joy. There had even been a time in their mid-teens when they’d had a wee bit of a crush on each other, and had very nearly taken it further, one hot summer afternoon in Ginny’s bedroom at the Burrow. Lost in their first breathless kiss, they had heard the creak on the stairs outside just in time, so Molly Weasley, who had an uncanny instinct for being in the wrong place at the right time, didn’t see them spring apart guiltily when she entered the room without knocking.It never happened again, though their friendship had deepened, and now ten years had passed, and they were out on the town on a Friday night.

Ginny was in an especially devil-may-care mood. The season was finally over, the Harpies had beaten the Chudleigh Cannons to the top spot, again, and she had been set free for a few weeks. She had her dangerous red dress on, she was drinking a bit more than usual, and there was a roguish glint in her eyes.

“Let’s go somewhere different, I’m tired of being pawed by boring blokes,” she shouted into Hermione’s ear, above the loud music and clatter of the club where they had been dancing and fending off too many eager male suitors, who couldn’t resist the tempting sight of two attractive young women dancing together.

Hermione nodded fervently in agreement, she had just had to fight off a suave city type with octopus hands who had reminded her of the dreaded Cormac McLaggen in his persistent attempts to grab her arse. Ginny seized her hand and they left the club in a flurry of giggles and male entreaties to stay.

With a colourful history of post-match celebrations, Ginny’s knowledge of London nightlife was much more comprehensive than Hermione’s, so the older witch let herself be led up Soho streets and alleys until they arrived at a dimly lit door under a small neon sign that read ‘Pink Lips,’ with a facsimile of those pink lips at a rakish angle, to knowing eyes looking just a little more like a vulva than a mouth normally would. Hermione eyed the sign doubtfully. She wasn’t sure if she approved. The door opened, music and laughter spilled out, carrying with it a gaggle of high-spirited young women who brushed past Hermione and Ginny before meandering merrily up the dark cobbled alley. Two of the women stopped, embraced, and kissed deeply and unashamedly. Hermione blushed, glanced at Ginny, who was was watching with an amused grin and a coquettishly raised eyebrow.

“No blokes to bore you in here,” she chuckled, dragging Hermione into the tiny vestibule before she could object.

Hermione was surprised when Ginny signed them in, as it became clear that she was a member of the club, and that the membership was exclusively female.

“Sometimes a girl needs to get clear of all that testosterone,” Ginny told her friend, with a dirty smile. She knew she was testing Hermione’s limits, but the girl needed shaking out of her complacency for a change. She’d been looking a bit... well... stale, lately.

Of course Hermione knew that Ginny had indulged in the occasional Sapphic foray, despite, and alongside her long and stable relationship with Harry Potter. Ginny swore the latitude they gave each other was the reason they had lasted so long as a couple. According to Ginny, Harry liked to play with his own team once in a while too, and the fact that both of them acknowledged and allowed their bisexual peccadilloes seemed to have strengthened rather than weakened their relationship. Hermione had always been rather shy of sex discussions, as was Ron, and she had never asked more than Ginny was prepared to easily divulge. To walk into a lesbian nightclub was already as daring as she had ever been. Surprisingly she found it very much to her taste. The cocktails were more inventive, the conversation was better, and when she had to scamper to the loo, even that smelled better. She was just washing her hands, checking our her reflection, noting that the spells on her usually unruly hair were holding well,when a woman with a sharply cut black bob backed out of a cubicle, followed by a small, thin, razor-haircut blonde. They were both sniffing, rubbing their noses suspiciously, and chattering away twenty to the dozen. The black haired woman turned, Hermione saw a ruler straight fringe framing an all to familiar face in the mirror, and could not stop a wordless exclamation of shock and annoyance.

The other woman, though struck silent momentarily, found words sooner.

“What in the living fuck are you doing here, Granger?”

It was the female nemesis of her Hogwarts years, the one and only Pansy Parkinson, she of the pug-face... no longer. She’d lost all of her puppy fat, and gained classic definition. She was still annoying too, because now she was casually gorgeous in a deep green catsuit Who the hell else could look that good in that colour?

“I’m just having a drink with Ginny Weasley. Why? What’s it to you?” Hermione managed to reply resentfully, her face suddenly scarlet with embarrassment to be found in a place like this by the worst possible person. It would be all over the wizarding world in no time. Hermione Granger spotted in a gay bar… Ron would be livid.

The small blonde was gabbling in French, and tugging Pansy by the hand. Pansy rolled her eyes at Hermione and departed at a trot, with the ghost of an amused grin.

“Ginny… I think we should leave… I just saw Pansy Parkinson in the loo. It was a big mistake coming here…” She blurted as soon as she found Ginny at the bar.

“Oh Hermione, relax, quite a few witches come here. If you’re worried about your spotless reputation, don’t be, this place is famous for its discretion. Pansy’s a regular, in fact she’s the headlining part of the entertainment tonight. You obviously don’t know that she’s earned herself quite a name as a nightclub artiste these days. And it’s a long time since we were at Hogwarts. People change, Pansy has.”

Ginny definitely sounded sincere, thought Hermione. “How do you know that? Have you spoken to her?” She needed more evidence, her memories of Parkinson’s bullying and belittling behaviour were all too vivid.

“We shagged actually, a couple of times, last year, more would have been nice, but I had to go off with the Harpies, and Pansy... well, she does tend to get through her girlies. She was fun though. I like her.”

Hermione gasped and clutched her throat. She was deeply shocked. She thought she knew Ginny as well or better than any friend, but hearing about her bisexual peccadilloes first hand was a surprise she had not expected. Not that she needed to know about Pansy, but she would have liked to have known sooner. As she digested the knowledge, somewhere deep inside a tiny frisson of something new germinated. Hermione found herself wondering what Ginny had actually done in bed with the formerly Unspeakable Parkinson ...Which was pretty much the first time sh’d ever thought about how lesbians had sex, she realised. She took in a deep ragged breath, as a wave of wholly unexpected arousal flushed through her blood. Must be the influence of all these cruising lesbians, she thought, try to avoid a frankly come hither gaze from a tall, aristocratic looking black woman. To distract herself, she asked Ginny what Pansy was like as a performer. Ginny pointed at the stage in the middle of the dance floor.

“Watch and learn,” she said.

Pansy was slinking up the steps, her arse looking outrageously sexy in skintight black leather hot pants.

“She’s thought of as sort of an anti-Kylie in the gay community - where Kylie is cute and coy, Pansy is very frank and up front.” Ginny spoke into Hermione’s ear as a fanfare over the club’s sound system welcomed Parkinson to the stage.

“Wow... I mean... just... wow!” Exclaimed Hermione half an hour later, as Pansy left the stage to howls of glee and thunderous applause, the small blonde girl almost naked now, on a leash, crawling on her hands and knees, following behind, her adoring slave.

Hermione’s ears and brain were still ringing from the pounding rhythms, the slinky, dirty bass, and most of all the low, growling, sensual purr of Pansy’s voice. Quite apart from her singing, which was sublime, was the sheer sex of it, the tantalising taunting tug as she teased every pussy in the house, taking them all into an erotic underworld that she created with a few elegant gestures and the marvellously expressive qualities of her sea green eyes. There may even have been some magic involved, Hermione reasoned with herself, to have that kind of effect on so many people. She was willing to bet there wasn’t a dry pair of knickers in the room. She knew that hers were uncharacteristically sodden, and that both shamed and thrilled her. She turned to Ginny, who looked as turned on as Hermione felt, her lips parted, eyes shiny, a hand resting not quite innocently on her tightly trousered crotch.

“She’s quite something, isn’t she? I haven’t seen her sing for ages... she’s, well... becoming a bit of a phenomenon.” Said Ginny, regretting again the brevity of her fling with Pansy. The demands of being an international Quidditch star led to some unwelcome sacrifices.

Pansy’s show had made the evening even more bacchanalian. In its aftermath the dancing was wilder, the drinking too. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so good, so carefree and relaxed on a night out, though pragmatist that she was, she already anticipated a monumental hangover in the morning. Many of the women in the club, loosened up by Pansy’s sensual spirit, were going with the mood, snogging and fondling each other with abandon, which made Hermione even warmer between the thighs.

“A lot of this crowd are into E,” Ginny informed her friend. “I keep away from that stuff, it’s even worse than booze for my game, but it does loosen inhibitions, as you can see.” She grinned wickedly. “In fact... how are your inhibitions doing, Hermione Granger?”

“Very nicely thank you,” her friend replied tartly, and then grinned back. No use denying her feelings to Ginny.

A little later Ginny was recognised by two very merry young witches who wanted to worship their favourite chaser. She looked at Hermione, hoping she wouldn’t be offended if she gave some time to someone else. Hermione was pleasantly drunk, and feeling benign. She nodded at Ginny and shooed her away with her fans. A little while later, while wandering happily through the club, Hermione saw a lot of coming and going through a heavy security door. Curiously she let herself be swept into the stream, and soon found herself in a small courtyard crowded with chattering smoking women. Passing one group she caught a heavy whiff of what she knew was marijuana. She remembered her parents warning her about that when she was fifteen. Wrinkling her nose, she was about to go back into the club when a familiar voice called her name, not loudly, but clearly.

“Granger! Come and be civil to an old enemy!”

Hermione turned. It was Pansy Parkinson. She hesitated for a moment, quite ready to run. What else could Pansy be, but trouble? But she remembered what Ginny had said about Pansy changing, and knew that as a reasonably mature adult she should give her a chance. Yes, she should at least be civil. Before she could move to join Pansy, the sultry, self-possessed nightclub singer strode purposefully towards her, slaloming through clusters of adoring fans. Before Hermione could resist or protest, Pansy had come intimately close, and leaned in for air kisses as if she was an old friend, instead of the opposite.

“Do me a favour, Granger, stick with me, I’ve been trying to get away from this lot for ages,” she whispered into Hermione’s ear.

Pansy Parkinson seized Hermione Granger’s arm, and the initiative, and making flimsy over the shoulder excuses to her fans about catching up another time, led her past a security woman to a quieter seated enclave behind a velvet rope. They approached a sofa and Pansy pulled rank. Three slightly haughty looking older women smiled quite graciously, and made way for Pansy and Hermione.

“VIP area, they’ll leave us alone here.” Pansy explained, tucking her long smooth legs under her. With one nimble hand she plucked a cigarette out of a packet that was stored in a small Chanel handbag. She gripped the filter securely with her teeth, pursed it into her lips, and snapped a lighter beneath it. She inhaled gratefully.

“Isn’t that bad for your voice?” Hermione couldn’t help herself asking, regretting her question immediately.

“Oh Granger, still the prissy little goody two shoes!” Pansy laughed, but without malice, and she stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray after only one more puff. “You’re right, I should know better. I want something stronger but it’s still too early. It’s not easy to come back to earth after a performance.

Hermione was nonplussed. When had Parkinson ever agreed with anything she’d said?

“You were amazing... I’ve never seen... heard... anyone sing like that,” she gushed, to make up for her faux pas.

“Yeah, I was pretty good wasn’t I.” Pansy concurred. “But what interests me is you. You’re looking good, Granger.”

Hermione’s mouth opened to say thank you, but no sound came out. Pansy’s compliment had sent a warm glow right through her.

“I hear you’ve been making waves at the Ministry too, not just here at Pink Lips... yes you’ve been noticed, but don’t worry. Anyway, good for you, they need shaking up.”

Was Pansy just doing this to impress her? And if so, why? Hermione thought. She dragged her eyes up from the enticing swell of cupcake boobs in a tight low cut top, to Pansy’s face, and inevitably, her eyes. Their gaze locked, and widened, as wordless - and to Hermione - incomprehensible messages seared back and forth until she had to break the gaze, because she was feeling breathless and disorientated.

“Bloody hell Granger... you’ve never looked at me like that before!” Pansy said, gruffly, taken aback too.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hermione squeaked, blushing hotly.

“Have you ever heard of gaydar?” Pansy enquired curiously.

Hermione shook her head. She wasn’t lying, though she instinctively understood what the term must mean, and blushed even deeper.

“I’m sure your friend Ginny will explain.” Pansy murmured, stroking a slow finger down Hermione’s bare arm, and watching the skin ripple into goosebumps in its wake.

The word Weasley suddenly brought Hermione back to reality. What could she be thinking of? Virtually flirting with a notorious Slytherin bully, while she was newly engaged to her beloved Ron?!

“I really should go and find Ginny,” she croaked, though her arm stayed where is was as if paralysed by Pansy’s slowly caressing finger.

“Ginny’s a big girl, she can look after herself... but I’m not so sure about you.” Pansy purred softly.

Hermione had never felt quite like this before. As if she was on the edge of a precipice, not sure whether fall or step back. She deliberately avoided Parkinson’s eyes, sensing that one more glance and she wasn’t likely to just fall, but jump headfirst into something she would regret forever.

“Sorry Parkinson, but I really have to go...” she managed to blurt, and very deliberately flashed her engagement ring at Pansy.

Experienced seductress Pansy sensed that she was moving too fast. Something about Granger was seriously disturbing her normal sangfroid. Time to pull back, because she suddenly realised that she wanted to know the grown up Granger much better, and pushing her would be the worst thing she could do at this crucial moment.

“Ok. I get it, far be it from me to interfere where Weasleys are involved. It’s been surprisingly good to see you again, Granger. I’d... actually... seriously, I’d like us to get together just for a drink sometime, I’ve got a feeling it would do us both good to ditch some of our bad old baggage over a bottle of wine. I have been trying to make amends for my past, begrudgingly at times, I admit, but I am trying. I’d be grateful if you’d listen to my side of the story.” She concluded with just the faintest catch in her voice.

Hermione realised that she had never actually considered that Parkinson might have some kind of back story to account for her bitch from hell behaviour at school.

“I… I’ll think about it, but I really must go now,” She pleaded with her eyes for release.

“I’ll accept that for the time being… now, have I earned a goodbye peck on the cheek?” Pansy asked sardonically, moving in a little as a slight tease. Hermione, flustered, started to shake her head in refusal, changed her mind, turned to brush her cheek against Pansy’s but misjudged, and sod’s law intervened, so that their lips met by accident in a clumsy clash.

The sensation was electric. Instead of pulling back as every instinct but one told her to, Hermione found herself drawn into a dizzying softness, a wave of unfettered emotion, and the desire for the kiss to deepen and continue. Perhaps forever... Gentle, even teeth nibbled her lower lip, and she whimpered... Seconds later she thought of Ron. Wracked with guilt, and furious with Pansy, she tore herself away, not caring to even glimpse Parkinson’s expression as she fled.

Had she turned and looked she’d have seen flash of unguarded, vulnerable disappointment, mixed with surprise upon Pansy’s face. Teasing and flirting with Granger had been fun, and though she’d genuinely wanted more, she hadn’t expected that kiss, and how it had felt. She touched her lips. They were still hyper-sensitive, alarmingly alive... now that really was magic, she thought dreamily.

“We’ve got to leave here... now!” Hermione insisted when she found Ginny close dancing to the point of dry-humping with one of her fans.

“What’s the rush? Did some naughty dykejump you?” Ginny asked, concerned but a little annoyed. She’d been losing herself very nicely in that Muggle girl’s arms, and on her thigh. A hot little bathroom shag had been looming, but now her plans had stalled.

“Something like that... please... let’s go!” Hermione insisted.

Ginny said a hurried and apologetic farewell to her dance floor partner, and followed Hermione out of the club.

“What was it? Did a saucy minx put her hand up your dress? Unwelcome advances?” Ginny asked as they walked back down the alley towards the main thoroughfare.

“Not exactly.” Said Hermione, stopping. She wasn’t sure what to say to Ginny. Should she pretend it was someone else who had disturbed her so? Ginny was her best friend. If she couldn’t tell her it would burn holes in her conscience. She could see Ginny was waiting for an explanation.

“It was Parkinson... we were just talking... she was being... nice to me, which was weird enough. When we... then she... I... it was an accident, but we kissed.” Hermione finished in a rush.

“Oh dearie me... and did you like it?” Ginny couldn’t help herself asking, frustrated as well as curious. She’d had her suspicions about Hermione’s orientation since the days when they used to share her bedroom at the Burrow.

“Ginny! How can you ask such a thing!” Hermione exclaimed, angered by the casualness of Ginny’s response.

“Well, you must have felt something, or you wouldn’t be acting like a scandalised spinster.” Ginny laughed. “And I do know from personal experience that Parkinson is an extremely good kisser.” She added, knowing it would wind Hermione up even more.

Even in the dim streetlights Ginny could see that her friend was flushed to the point of perspiring. She ought to feel mad with Hermione for cheating, even though it was only a tiny bit, on her sweet dolt of a brother, but all she felt was that it was good to see ‘Mione shocked out of her usual certainties. She knew for a fact that she’d only ever been with two boys, and one of those was Viktor Krum, who hadn’t got past second base. Much as Ginny loved Ron, she’d never been certain of his rightness for the brightest witch of their generation. A bit of doubt might be painful, but it could be good for both of them in the long run. Rather now than after the wedding, she reasoned. She and Harry were lucky, they’d been completely honest about their desires, ever since their reunion after the War.

Hermione scowled. Ginny was not helping at all. “I think I’d better get home,” she said, a little too stiffly

“Do you mind if I go back to the Club?” Asked Ginny a little too quickly. They parted in a much less friendly manner than usual, neither thinking that the other was being sufficiently supportive.

Hermione found a quiet corner behind some large recycling bins, and disapparated to her back door in Diagon Alley. Ron had gone to bed long since. He was snoring, and a miasma of beer hung over him. He had been celebrating the end of the Quidditch season in his usual way. She cleaned her teeth and crept into bed. Ron rolled over, and a heavy arm now lay over Hermione’s waist, possessing her mutely until she could bear it no longer and gently lifted its dead weight from her body, and returned it to its owner, without waking him. Her mind endlessly looped her brief minutes with Pansy as she sought sleep until dawn, and just as she gave up all hope of rest, she drifted off.

An hour later she woke up, her hand soaking wet, pressed between her thighs, her heart racing. She had just come harder than she could remember, asleep or awake, at the literal climax of a dream about Pansy Parkinson singing into her ear and caressing her arm. “This is NOT normal,” she groaned as she climbed out of bed and tottered to the shower, where she used the pulse setting on the shower head and the lingering vestiges of arousal from the erotic dream to make herself come twice more, before the warm water finally cleansed her and calmed her enough to sleep again.

Pansy didn’t come. She rarely came these days. She would get so close, the excitement, the rush of pleasure building higher and higher and then... nothing. Fizzle. Flatness. Failure. Disappointment. It was as if success and the thrilling power she felt while performing had replaced sex. Occasionally she would masturbate, and once in a while she could come, when the fantasy was right, when she had the time and patience for it. She finished Mathilde, her sweet little blonde French girlfriend, lately of Beauxbaton, with her fingers, after faking it for her. No point in upsetting her again. At almost the same moment as Hermione was dreaming, Pansy was in her bathroom with a vibrator, and it was no coincidence that the woman in her mind as she gasped and panted with a pleasure and release that Mathilde had been powerless to give her, was Hermione Granger.


	2. Definitely not a date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can blame Ginny Weasley...

Two weeks passed, the memory of the clubbing night slowly faded into the perspective of memory, but it wouldn’t go away, having ignited sparks of curiosity and desire in two souls, that could not be extinguished by time alone.

Hermione knew that she spent far too much effort and time avoiding the subject. Denial was the best line of defence against such feelings, she’d stubbornly decided, and threw herself into wedding plans with the same forensic thoroughness she brought to her work at the Ministry. She made it up with Ginny, though there was still a slight undercurrent of resentment that the Quidditch star had been foolish to lead her into temptation.

Pansy broke up with Mathilde, who had been looking for a commitment that Pansy was unable to give. Restless and depressed, the singer drank and drugged a little more. For some inexplicable reason, one night stands held far less attraction than they used to, and she still needed some kind of reward, especially after gigs. Pragmatically, she bought a couple of new Muggle sex toys, and exercised her imagination towards a certain specific brunette more regularly than might be thought wise or healthy.

Ginny felt guilty at first, then as time passed and Hermione’s strange mood persisted, she became a little aggravated with her best friend. She discussed it with Harry, who naturally veered more towards Ron’s likely point of view, despite his genuine empathy for Hermione’s possible plight. His post-war attraction to Draco had disturbed him for several years until Ginny had cunningly arranged a seemingly spontaneous threesome, and then left the boys to it as their surface loathing turned to honest lust at last. Her reward had been Harry’s increased devotion, and an invitation to join the men, along with Draco’s fiancée, the delicious and surprisingly amoral Astoria Greengrass, in semi-regular mixed foursomes at each other’s houses. Ginny surmised that what was between Granger and Parkinson might be a similar blend of enmity and attraction. She worried for her friend and her brother, that their essential sexual conservatism could leave their married life with a great potential for future unhappiness. She thought about it a lot. She’d never seen Hermione shaken like this before. She felt quite strongly that it was something her friend had better confront and process, or get out of her system, as soon a possible. Parkinson was a fuck ‘em and forget ‘em kind of gal, so if Hermione ever did get that far, small chance though there was of that, it would probably be over and done with before she knew it. Altogether, it was a dilemma with very little chance of a truly happy resolution for everyone, but not all the options were bad.

Then she crossed paths with a half-pissed Pansy one evening in the Leaky Cauldron.

“Hey Weasley... come and keep me comp’ny...” a familiar husky voice hailed Ginny as she headed through the bar towards Diagon Alley.

Half an hour later they were both a bit more pissed, and giggling about Parkinson’s brief encounter with Granger, except Ginny could see it made Pansy disproportionately sad and wistful for what might have been, beneath her tipsy smile. Another couple of drinks, and Ginny found an angle, a plan with just a small chance of success, but at least it was a plan. She had already ascertained that Pansy, as a regular performer in the Muggle world as well as the Magical, owned a mobile phone. Hermione relied on hers for contacting her parents and her Muggle friends. Ginny had a touch of her father’s fascination with Muggle technology, and owned a phone too, though she rarely used it, except to text Hermione. She knew well enough how they worked though. While Pansy was in the witches’ bathroom, Ginny slipped the singer’s phone from her bag, cast a nifty little unlocking spell that Dad had taught her, and programmed its memory with Hermione’s name and number. Then she used the phone to send her friend a text message reading simply:

 _‘call me tomorrow.’_

She dropped the phone back into Pansy’s bag, just in time.

Pansy woke late the following morning, a Friday, to the sound of her phone pinging. A text alert... she fumbled for it on the cluttered bedside table, and checked the screen. One word.

 _‘What?’_

Sender... Hermione Granger... suddenly Pansy was wide awake.

“How in Merlin’s name...? I don’t even have her number, more’s the pity... but now... I do!? But how? That wicked minx Weaslette!” she guessed accurately with a chuckle, then groaned with the pain of her hangover. Surely, a sneaky little trick like that was much more worthy of a Slytherin than a Gryffindor.

Curiosity had gnawed at Hermione all night. She had literally not slept a wink since receiving Pansy’s text. First of all, she was dying to know how Pansy had discovered her number. That upset her almost as much as the message. No, she wouldn’t call, why would Pansy think she had the right to command her to do that? A peremptory text at a time of her own choosing would be the most appropriate reply, she decided. In the morning she had been a little less affectionate than she’d meant to be when she saw Ron off on a weekend trip to Romania, and his brother Charlie, to buy Dragon-based ingredients for Wizard Wheezes’ ever expanding range of potions. He wouldn’t be back until Monday morning.

At 11.30am, when the first meeting of the day finally concluded, she sent her curt reply to the woman she still thought of as her nemesis.

Pansy decided to front the situation.

_‘how about that drink you promised me?’_

_‘I did no such thing!’_

_‘I don’t bite’_

_‘that’s debatable.’_

_‘lol, good one, Granger’_

And so a long, sarky, hurriedly tapped out conversation began, Pansy wheedling, Hermione refusing, but oddly unwilling to end the connection completely, until:

_‘you’re not going to leave me alone are you?’_

_‘fraid not Granger.’_

_‘ok one drink. Tonight. 7pm The Eastern Hotel Bar.’_

She’d been there with her parents for their silver wedding anniversary dinner last year. As Muggle as a place could be, quiet booths for privacy, and no stray witches to witness her giving Parkinson the brush off.

 _‘was that so hard?’_ Came Pansy’s reply.

_‘fuck off Parkinson.’_

_‘that’s my Gryffindor girl’_

_‘I’m not anyone’s girl’_

_‘not even won won’s?’_

_‘fuck off a little further, Parkinson, and then keep fucking off!’_

The bickering texts continued sporadically for most of the day. Hermione had the strangest feeling that she had boarded a train, and did not know how or where to get off. Pansy didn’t need a hair of the dog for her hangover, or a lunchtime pick me up. Teasing Granger was easy, and quite sufficient entertainment to distract her from the self-destructive urges she often felt when she was alone, and there were no gigs in the offing.

Home from work early, Hermione decided that she would dress down... no she’d dress up, she’d show that depraved Slytherin bitch what she was made of these days, then turning her down would be so much more gratifying. No, she mustn’t provoke her... no, she must, that was the whole point of the meeting... or was it? Hermione’s sleep deprived brain flitted feverishly back and forth until, exhausted, she collapsed onto the big empty double bed, and slept like a lamb for two hours, waking to find she had barely enough time to get ready for her date. No, not a date, definitely not a date.

Pansy, unusually, arrived a few minutes early. She was wearing a beautifully cut tuxedo suit with a skinny tie, loose over a crisp white shirt that was unbuttoned to an interesting level. She stood up and emitted a low but audible whistle when she saw Hermione enter the bar. The brunette witch’s hair fell in a wavy cascade down her back. She was wearing a little black dress that swung like weighted silk from her hips and skimmed her thighs, the halter top seemed to emphasise her bra-less breasts as they discreetly strained against the material. On her feet she wore shiny black and silver killer heels that only complimented her lightly tanned legs.

“Dressed to kill, Granger,” Pansy remarked, clutching at her heart and staggering as if shot.

“Pretty fit yourself, Parkinson,” Hermione retorted, unable to keep a smile from her lips. Together, the pair of them were undeniably, achingly hot. She wondered later if that was the moment when her plans of revenge and humiliation flew out of the window.

It only took one drink, though they had a couple more to make sure.

Sitting close, much closer than Hermione had imagined in her mental scenario, they were very aware of the scent and warmth of each as they edged into conversation, a little stilted at first, but quickly gaining confidence as they shared confidences.

Pansy’s dryly told tale hinted heavily at parental abuse and a rich, rigidly prejudiced couple’s neglect of their only child, a daughter when they yearned for a son, and reminded Hermione sharply of how lucky she was. She had known nothing but love and support from her parents, even though her magical world filled them with puzzlement, and for a while, fear. They had always been proud of her though. Pansy asked well-informed questions about Hermione’s career, which it seemed she had followed a little more closely than one would have anticipated, right down to a missed opportunity that had rankled her, just before the night when she met Pansy at Pink Lips.

“I was offered a roving post, loads of international travel, but Ron…”

“… didn’t like the idea of his future wife having so much freedom?”

“No! Of course not... Um...Yes, actually… something like that.” Hermione admitted.

“So it’s fine for him to swan off to Romania or... Singapore... for the weekend whenever he feels like it, but not for wee wifey to have more rewarding job.” So she had even heard about Ron’s lads only trip to the last Quidditch World Cup.

“Yes… well… when you put it like that…” Hermione agreed.

“I’d have urged you to go… fuck it, I’d have gone with you,” Pansy husked leaning closer, looking deep into Hermione’s eyes.

She placed a hand on Hermione’s knee, the table hiding it from view, fully expecting an exclamation and a brush off, but no protest came.

“Stop looking at me like that…” Hermione almost whimpered. Such strange things were happening inside her. Parkinson’s presence was like a drug, invading her senses, making her weak.

“Actually, Granger, I can’t… and I don’t think you want me to.”Of its own accord, Pansy’s hand was travelling slowly up Hermione’s warm thigh and edging under the hem of her dress.

Hermione trembled and felt dizzy. She dimly noticed Pansy muttering a wandless disillusionment charm to protect them from curious eyes. Her thighs seemed to part of their own accord, and the invisible, impudently tracing finger on the crotch of her panties set off a gush of hot arousal.

When she dared to look into Pansy’s eyes again, because she just couldn’t resist it, just as she’d predicted, she drowned helplessly in their sea green depths. Her lips were shaping for a kiss already, and when Pansy leaned in, there was no resistance at all. The kiss was obliterating, sensual and sacred. Nibbling teeth tugging at soft flesh, tongues dipping, dabbling, flickering. Hermione’s hand rose and held the back of Pansy’s head, her fingers reaching deep to touch her warm scalp…

“Ouch!” Pansy exclaimed at a sudden jolt of pain. Granger’s ring had caught in her hair.

It took a frustrating minute to free the tangled knot the ring had caused. The engagement ring…

“I can’t do this… I’m engaged… I’m getting married!” Hermione gasped, guiltily seeing the diamond sparkling on her left hand.

She grabbed her bag and fled from the booth. Hurriedly Pansy dropped some banknotes on the table and gave chase.

“Leave me alone, this is mad!” Hermione wailed, as Pansy caught up with her.

“Hermione… can’t you tell? This is… I need…” Pansy began.

“I don’t need you Pansy… I’m in love with Ron!” Hermione interrupted.

But when Pansy steered her down a dark alley, she didn’t pull away, and when Pansy backed her against a brick wall, and began to ravish her mouth again, she was powerless to resist. Her leg lifted of its own accord, hooked itself over Pansy’s hip, so that she could press her centre more closely against the singer’s long leg. The fever was upon her as never before. She had never wanted anyone or anything as much as this weird thing with Parkinson.

Pansy was only slightly more in control. When they broke from their endlessly hungry kiss, and Hermione murmured, “take me somewhere,” Pansy was only just able to muster the concentration she needed to hold Hermione’s arm, and twist her in the familiar manner to sidealong apparate them both to the bedroom of her riverside warehouse flat in London’s docklands.

For Hermione, it was a kind of lovemaking that began at ground zero. She was a virgin again, untouched by female hand, but with Pansy there was no awkwardness, nothing in the way that selfishly demanded attention, like a stiff prick, no searching for a little more stimulation of her own, because Ron was slightly missing the point. If someone had asked the day before, how she rated her sex-life, she’d have said “most satisfactory, thank you.” From the moment Pansy eased her graceful, educated hand into Hermione’s knickers, Ron fell off her radar completely. There was only Pansy, and the dazzling pleasure that she gave so expertly, and Hermione’s desire to return that pleasure, knowing that her instincts would help her where her knowledge failed. There was no need or reason for mistakes.

Pansy was making discoveries of her own. Pleasing Granger was an exquisite reward in itself. The woman in her bed was so fresh, so untried, and yet so ripe that she didn’t even need to be plucked, she fell straight into Pansy’s hands, a warm, moist peach of feminine sensuality. She had a hunger about her, a readiness, and once she had made the leap, she seemed willing to give everything, even though it was her first time

“Gods, Granger... you are so fucking beautiful.”

Hermione’s dress was round her waist like a wide black belt, the skirt rolled up, the halter neck released. Green eyes feasted on pert pink nippled breasts, a surprisingly toned tummy, and below that... Pansy growled as she hooked her thumbs into Hermione’s black satin knickers and eased them over her hips, revealing a neat brown bush and tender lips. She could already smell the unique scent of the woman, a subtly sweet perfume mixed with the musk of arousal she had instigated with her presence, and her caresses. It made her high. It was much better than the false promise of cocaine, Pansy decided immediately. She gazed lustfully upon the delicate orchid of Hermione’s sex. That would keep for a little longer... With a practiced twisting whisk, Pansy lifted Hermione’s dress over head. She was naked at last, though Pansy still wore her half-unbuttoned shirt, the necktie loosely hanging from its open collar, and her dark suit trousers. Hermione was fascinated by the way Pansy’s breasts moved inside the shirt, the way her nipples peeked shyly, how awesomely sexy she was as she lowered herself between thighs that parted so eagerly. _‘My thighs... Pansy Parkinson is about to kiss my pussy! Oh Merlín! What am I to do!?’_

Hermione bit her bottom lip and frowned, not with worry, but from the intensity of sensation. Sex had been a pleasure before, but this was nothing like the sex she knew. This was so different, special, scary... Pansy’s lips had closed around her clit, and the tip of her tongue teased it with fiendish delight. Hermione let out a howl and shuddered violently. Pansy stopped everything, and blew a stream of warm air over the tingling, throbbing nub until the moment of crisis had passed. It had become very important to Pansy that if it was physically possible they, should come together, the first time.

Mewing with frustration and delight, Hermione willed Pansy’s attentions to return, and decided that she should show a little initiative. She sent her slim, curious fingers upon a quest, first pushing the shirt from Pansy’s shoulders, then unzipping her trousers. She gasped, feeling something uncannily like an erect cock behind the cloth, though a quick glance reassured her (or did it?) that what lay between Pansy’s legs was a substantial black strap-on dildo. She was intrigued, and not sure whether to be pleased, for how good it would surely feel to be opened and filled with that thing, or upset that Pansy had already been wearing it on their date (okay, it really had been a date), which meant she had anticipated seducing Hermione successfully from the start. Ignoring the last lingering doubts, she grasped the thick black shaft and slicked the tip between her swollen folds, gasping, because everything was so sensitive, so aroused. Pansy grasped Hermione’s hips, and pressed into her, trusting the other witch’s wetness to be sufficient lubrication. It was. Hermione’s hands now rose dreamily to Pansy’s sweet little breasts, thumbing her nipples, feeling their berry-like hardness, amazed that she was touching another woman like that, amazed at how good it felt, amazed that the woman was Pansy Parkinson, who was now inside her. And amazed, because sex had never felt like this before... such astonishing intimacy, such a wealth of pleasure.

Pansy strained into Hermione, making her gasp and claw her arse and back as the friction inside her drove her deeper into her spiral of rapture. But it wasn’t enough for Pansy. She needed something else, something she hadn’t done for a long time, because she hadn’t trusted other women to excite her sufficiently.

“Wait!” She gasped, withdrawing, and scrambling out of the harness. “I want it to be just us,” she explained, voice thick with passion. She lay upon Hermione, breast to breast, belly to belly, pussy to pussy.

They gazed unblinking into each other’s eyes as they writhed ardently against each other, clit grazing clit. They were both smiling. And then the kisses began again, kisses such as Hermione had never known, kisses that were already breaking Pansy’s heart, because they shouldn’t be this good, because this was bound to end in tears, and the better it felt now, the worse parting would be in the future. Then the moment of introspection was washed away by the approach of orgasm. They did not try to prolong the moment, but rhythmically rippled like a synchronised machine, a single living creature seeking its ultimate goal. Pansy saw Hermione’s eyes roll back into her skull, just before hers did the same. With wild joyous shrieks, the old rivals came together, bonding in pure ecstasy, and in doing so became astonished new lovers.

In the aftermath came tenderness and emotions so intense that tears flowed freely from Hermione’s eyes, and she had to cling to Pansy like child as deep sobs wracked her for several minutes, though her face told a story of happiness, not despair.

“Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger...” Hermione breathed, testing the sound of it. Pansy kissed the hollow of her throat, a hand cupping her breast. They couldn’t stop touching each other. How could they, when it felt so good, so right? Sleep came upon them finally, absolving them of further thought until morning.


	3. 36 Hours, and then a little more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days begin well, but do they end that way?

Hermione’s drifted back to consciousness from a deep and dreamless sleep, to find herself alone on the white sheets of a very large, very rumpled bed. It took a few seconds to remember where she was and what had led her there, and as if on cue her mobile phone rang. In a panic, she scrambled for her bag and just managed to exhume the phone from the improbable depths before the ringing stopped. She saw the semi-familiar Romanian country code, so it must be Ron calling from Charlie Weasley’s. Her heart jumped into her mouth, and then dropped like a stone. Before she could order her thoughts, she heard the voice of her fiancé. There was something sacrilegious about him calling her here, now, as if he was intruding on purpose. As he spoke and asked the usual kind of questions - far too loudly, as he always did on the phone - she managed to make bland replies and little white lies about being awake for ages after a quiet night in. She made doubly certain that Ron’s return would be on Monday morning.

She heard a door open and close, and Pansy appeared, in cut off jeans and a loose singlet holding a rustling paper bag with a bakery logo, and looking unbearably sexy. The sun came out at exactly that moment, and Hermione, while still wracked with guilt, longed only to say goodbye to Ron, and hello to Pansy. Which made her feel terrible and wonderful all at once.

  
The day was like no other, like it had been stolen from reality and gifted to them by a benevolent goddess. They both behaved as if the future barely existed. They showered together, taking their time. Pansy usually kept a supply of new toothbrushes for her nocturnal visitors, but she’d run out.

“We had our tongues in each other’s mouths half the night, so it really shouldn’t matter,” she reasoned teasingly when she offered to share her own.

Hermione accepted it happily, and then Pansy enjoyed dressing Hermione in some of her clothes, and making her up, too. Consequently Granger looked a touch more glamorous than usual for the daytime, especially around the eyes and lips, which Pansy had painted pink, and were now a very similar shape to those on the sign of her favourite club. When they left Pansy’s apartment Hermione’s wild tresses were held neatly together in a tight piratical pigtail; they were both wearing jeans and tee shirts, and adorably matching leather jackets. ‘We look like a couple already,’ thought Pansy with a sweet stab of longing.

The sun was still shining and rapidly gaining strength, though there was a spring-like freshness in the morning air. They wanted peace and nature, and decided to go to Hampstead Heath, which Hermione knew well from walks with her parents, and on her own, when she needed to think. Somehow they both understood that Magic had no part in their day, which was about two human beings and their feelings for each other. They talked as thoughts occurred to them, unstructured conversation that flitted back and forth with an entirely organic quality. There were silences that said quite as much as words, and were even more intimate. They held hands as if the simple contact was their talisman against an uncertain future.

Late in the warmth of the balmy summer afternoon, they found a bench at the top of Parliament Hill Fields that looked down upon a stunning vista of London, and they paused there for a while. Having rarely given Pansy’s life a thought, except to resent her existence, Hermione was now filled with curiosity to know everything about her.

“When did you come out?” She asked boldly.

“I never talk about that... anyway, you never stop coming out.” Said Pansy tersely.

“If you tell me... I’ll let you kiss me, here, in public.” Hermione turned Pansy’s face to her, and kissed her shyly anyway.

Pansy was too charmed to protest again. “I was sixteen... they didn’t believe me at first. I was supposed to marry Draco, remember? When I insisted that I was in love with Daphne Greengrass and had no interest in boys... father cursed me with a full body bind, and then... he beat me... the bastard beat me with his belt. It wasn’t the first time, or the last. I was forced under the threat of even worse than that to keep the pretence up, which I could only do with Draco’s support, until the end of the war. I was such a fucking mess back then. I was hell-bent on taking revenge on anything I could. I did some terrible things, especially to Gryffindors...”

“Sounds like you had terrible things done to you first,” said Hermione, stroking the palm of Pansy’s hand with her fingertips.

“I don’t want you to even imagine that,” Pansy said gruffly. “I haven’t told this stuff to anyone,” she added, sounding surprised.

“But you can tell me, cos I’m _not_ just anyone,” said Hermione succinctly, with a cute little smirk.

Pansy laughed, and saw the deep empathy in Hermione’s unwavering gaze, and knew that for the first time in her life she was with someone whom she could tell anything at all. And tomorrow, or Monday at the very latest, that someone would go back to her old life... but not today, today was theirs, to live, and love, and treasure.

At twilight they abandoned their bench and reluctantly admitted that they were both starving hungry. Hermione had a favourite Italian restaurant in Pond Square, not too far from the Heath, so they meandered there, still hand in hand. Hermione knew she had chosen it because she’d never been there with Ron.

“Buona sera, signorina Grangair, how nice to see you again,” Hermione was personally greeted by the owner.

Pansy was a little surprised to be shown that Hermione had a life of her own in Muggle London, beyond the magical realms. Even though she spent increasing amounts of time at Muggle venues and events, Pansy was still essentially a pure blood with limited knowledge of the world beyond her narrow upbringing. Discretion meant that they only held hands under the table. Perversely, they enjoyed the mild subterfuge, Pansy giving Hermione subtle hidden caresses that made her almost uncomfortably hot.

Back at Pansy’s apartment Hermione asked the singer about her music, and Pansy picked up her old guitar. There was a song she’d had written in the days after their chance meeting. It was very different to her usual, more playful and outrageous dance and burlesque orientated material; this was a stark and simple song of uncertainty, desire, hope, and the lack of it.

“This is for you,” she said gruffly, her fingers finding chords on the instrument’s slender neck.

_“Are you secretly thinking of what could be_   
_While I wear my heart on my sleeve?_   
_And when I see you again, as I surely will_   
_When the dust has finally settled_   
_Which of us will pay the bill?"_

Hermione knew exactly what the song was about, and was both shocked and deeply touched. No one had written her a song before. Ron had never come up with more than the occasional hasty holiday postcard, and they had stopped once he left school. She shouldn’t resent never having received a love letter, should she? As the last notes faded into the still night air in the candlelit room, tears streamed down Hermione’s cheeks. To be wanted in that way was new, and rather extraordinary.

After that, Hermione took the initiative and led their lovemaking for a while, partly in gratitude for the song, partly to show Pansy that she was not expecting to be taken every time, but mostly because Pansy made her want to do things that were scarily new, but absolutely wonderful, and she wanted to please her with a brand new passion. Even though this was a subject of which Hermione knew little in academic terms, Pansy had woken in her an erotic imagination that had been dozing for a decade and a half, and was now restlessly awake.

Pansy welcomed every experiment, giving herself to Granger unreservedly, patiently indulging a few understandable errors, celebrating the many successes. Pansy was used to being in charge, but she found that she trusted Granger with her body in a way she did with very few lovers. Hermione proved to own a highly talented mouth, and Pansy thought at one point that all the orgasms she’d been missing in her relationship with Mathilde, and several liaisons before that, must have stored themselves up, and were now being released in one go. When it came to chemistry, the two women were highly combustible in the best possible way. They made love for hours, talking languidly in between, mostly about the past, as a way of avoiding any mention of the inevitable future they were both resisting.

  
On Sunday morning Pansy woke up first. She gazed sleepily across the pillow at Hermione’s face in repose, and felt her heart melt into the purest romantic goo. She looked so achingly beautiful, even with chaotic hair, smeared lips and panda eyes. How she’d got into that mess was part of what made her so beautiful, on this pristine morning. This was bad. She hadn’t felt like this since Daphne, all those years ago, and Daphne had never really loved her anyway. This love had been requited, well and truly, which was better in so many ways, but what about tomorrow? The thought of losing Hermione was appalling, after... how long? Thirty-six hours. Thirty-six perfect hours.

She travelled back in her memory to school. She realised now that she had been fascinated by Granger since the first day of their first term. Something about the girl, even as an eleven year old, had irritated her, goaded, engaged and enraged her, and being in Slytherin and Gryffindor meant they had to be enemies, though there had been a certain negative pleasure in that of course. She remembered Umbridge’s reign of terror with hot shame, how she had persecuted Granger at every opportunity, and the way Hermione had sucked it up, antagonising her even more by ignoring the provocations. Gods, she had been so strong, so brave. That was the time when a slight but undeniable erotic snag had entered Pansy’s senses where Granger was involved. With a flush of pleasurable guilt she remembered her late night fantasies of spanking Granger’s deliciously curvaceous arse... As she watched and adored her, Hermione’s eyelids fluttered and opened, the waking dreams almost visible in her misty gaze. Pansy did not dare to actually to utter the words, ‘I love you,’ but she could show her, with her body, and her heart.

They had fallen asleep making love, and it seemed only natural to Hermione to wake up the same way. A line of soft kisses traced their way from her lips down to her breasts, pausing to ease her nipples into throbbing life, before resuming the journey down her belly, with a natural excursion to dip into her navel, until the kissing lips arrived in the outpost of her neatly trimmed bush. With a ragged sigh, she lifted her hips so that two strong feminine hands slipped under her bum cheeks, holding her, possessing her, steering her onto that sweetly working mouth whose tongue now explored the tang and musk of her sleepy folds. She moaned softly, and let her languid fingers rest lightly on Pansy’s gently rocking head. Her knees fell slackly apart before jerking and squeezing around the body between. The questing tongue had just discovered the tingling centre of her being.

Hermione Granger was in heaven, and feeding greedily between her thighs, so was Pansy Parkinson. Pansy wanted to make herself so indispensable to Hermione’s pleasure that she could never leave. She freed her hands, paused for a second to dip two fingers into her mouth, wetting them thoroughly, and then teased them between the swelling lips of Hermione’s pussy. She had discovered yesterday that the girl below her mouth deeply enjoyed being opened, and filled. Pansy was good at that, whether with her trusty strap-on, or her long fingers. In the last few years she’d had plenty of practice. Right now it was all about giving Granger pleasure, and in return feeling every detail of her along the way, so it would be the visceral thrill of fingers rather than the more psychological pleasure she felt when she fucked a girl with her cock. Glad though she was to be a woman, she did sometimes dream about having a real flesh and blood penis, and how it must feel to cum like a man...

Sex for Hermione had always been as much about emotional closeness as erotic pleasure. Ron was a gentle and considerate lover; not adventurous, but solicitous. She looked forwards to their early nights, and the sweet satisfying ache within as, after a modicum of affectionate foreplay he entered her with his surprisingly large cock. Not that she had anyone to compare him to, but she had researched subject a little, as one would...

What Pansy was doing to her did not feel like her fiancés cock. Two fingers had become three, that thrust more quickly in and out as she became wetter and wetter. They hooked upwards a little bit, and touched a place inside her that made her gasp. Was that right? Should it feel like that? Like a ball of exquisite tension and energy building in her loins, like a dam holding back a flood? Electricity seemed to arc back and forth between her clit and that place in her pussy. She began to strain, and arch, and shudder as everything intensified like a kettle rising to the boil on a hot stove, the steam making a whining, howling sound as the temperature rose and rose. Her still semi-somnambulant brain took a few seconds to register that the sound was emerging from her own mouth. She clawed feverishly at Pansy’s head, her own head tossing from side to side, on her face an expression of astonishment that a human body could feel such things, such promises of paradise. She heard a low husky growl issuing an order she had no choice but to obey.

“Come for me!”

As Pansy’s tongue returned to dance a tattoo upon her clit, Hermione let go as never before. She convulsed screaming, clamping on the fingers, exploding inside as she joyfully obeyed her mistress’s command. The dam broke, and hot gushes of liquid bliss burst from her pussy, soaking Pansy’s face. Hermione’s legs began to shake as if with extreme ague as another orgasm pounced behind the first, then another, and another, until she was weeping and begging Pansy to relent. Her entire body seemed to be infused with superheated blood, she was glowing, helpless, weakly sobbing from the intensity of emotion and sensation. Then the endorphins flooded her brain, bringing infinite tenderness and feelings for Pansy that she was not quite brave enough to put into words.  
  
“I came too...you didn’t even touch me... and I came! That truly is the best kind of magic,” Pansy panted, laughing rapturously as she cradled and rocked Hermione in her arms. “I don’t think you have any idea how special you are,” she added, narrowly avoiding the words ‘to me.’

As evening approached, Hermione began to feel awful pangs, because she knew that the time was approaching when she would have leave Pansy’s apartment, and Pansy, forever. She was getting married in a few months time. The invitations were due back from the printers this coming week. Because of their status as two thirds of the Golden Trio, it would be a major wedding in the Wizarding world. She loved Ron, she had betrayed him, yes, but perhaps she could pretend to herself that this was like a Hen night thing... what happened at the party stayed at the party, or so one of her Muggle friends had said when she shagged the male stripper at her own Hen night. Her heart clamoured. Pansy was not a random shag, though she might be to other women. Yes, she’d had other women, she had a reputation. Awful thought, was Hermione just one of those other women? Ginny had survived undamaged, but she was Ginny Weasley, and her husband understood her needs. Hermione was not Ginny, and Ron was certainly not Harry Potter.

Pansy could feel the reluctant withdrawal, the distance creeping in, even as the light began to fade from the evening. It was tearing her apart, the thought that every moment now was counting down to a final parting, and the beginning of memory instead of the joyous present they had enjoyed all weekend.

“Can I at least see you to your door?” She didn’t want to sound like she was begging, but found that she was.

Hermione frowned, furrowing her forehead as she argued with herself. She too wanted every morsel of Pansy that remained to her. The decisions were becoming unbearable. Ron wouldn’t be back until Monday morning. She would send Pansy straight home, the moment they had said goodbye. She would need the night to herself, to try and gain some order in her terminally confused brain. Yes, it was crazy to prolong this thing for a moment longer, but she had been crazy since the moment she first saw Pansy in Pink Lips.

“Yes Pansy, you may see me safely home,” she agreed with a sigh of resignation at her own weakness, knowing how wrong it was, but unable to stop herself.

“We’ll go the Muggle way... you know, what you lot call pubic transport.”

Despite all the stress she was feeling, perhaps because of it, Hermione snorted with laughter. “Public transport, I think you’ll find,” she corrected Pansy, trying not to become hysterical.  
  
Pansy scowled and then grinned self-consciously. “My fault for flunking Muggle studies,” she admitted.

Hermione was wearing borrowed clothes again. Baggy dark blue harem pants and a tight star-spangled sweater would not look too out of place on the home stretch. Her little black dress was folded neatly in her bag when they left the Docklands warehouse. Nobody wore a little black dress on a warm summer Sunday evening in Diagon Alley, to do so would be like a walk of shame. Which would be very true on this occasion, Hermione reflected ruefully. But she wasn’t ashamed of Pansy. Of herself, yes, definitely. They spoke very little as they travelled, first on the Docklands Light Railway, then the tube, and finally on foot. Closeness was the most important thing, not to lose contact for a moment... remembering not to kiss on the escalator at Tottenham Court Road station... They only stopped holding hand as they approached the Leaky Cauldron, but even then, they couldn’t help brushing shoulders at every opportunity.

There were a few wizards at the bar, a couple of out of town witches who were staying the night, a table of gob-stones players, and three goblins arguing in a corner. A quiet Sunday evening crowd that didn’t notice two young and preoccupied witches passing through. Old Tom at the bar did notice them, but only peripherally. As a resident of Diagon Alley, there was nothing unusual about Hermione Granger going and coming.

The warmth of the evening became suddenly unbearably humid as they stepped onto the cobbles, and the first fat raindrops fell as they passed Florian Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. Perhaps the sudden storm had been triggered by their mood, thought Pansy bleakly as the deluge fell upon them.

“Merlin’s tears,” she exclaimed, “let’s get out of this before we drown!”

Screeching, they fled up the street from awning to awning, soaked to the skin before they were halfway there. At last they came to the back yard of Weasleys Wizard Wheezes. Hermione sighed, and trembled with cold. It should have been the time for their sad farewell, but the moment they were out of sight of the road, Pansy seized her in a fierce embrace, pressing her against the door, their lips crashing together as the rain streamed over them. Hermione didn’t feel cold any longer. As suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped, leaving the witches drenched and panting.

“You’ll have to come inside, I suppose,” Hermione murmured, fresh desire coursing through her like strong wine.

She carefully made the incantations that unlocked the heavy security door. This felt so bloody odd, bringing Pansy here. If Pansy didn’t need to dry out her wet clothes, she’d have tried to send her back without seeing the inside of the newly decorated flat.

As the door closed itself, the longing overcame them in an stoppable surge, and a moment later they were snogging their way upstairs, shedding sodden garments along the way. Before Hermione could even begin to understand how they got there, they were in the bedroom, teetering on the edge of falling onto the bed. Ron and Hermione’s bed.

“Not here,” Hermione gasped, and dragged Pansy into the bathroom next door.

The cold from the rain hit them in their momentary return to sanity. Hermione turned on the taps and began to run a bath. Pansy let Hermione do whatever she thought best. She was already much further into her love’s private life than she’d imagined she could be. At any moment Hermione might change her mind or break the mood, and that moment would be final. Every second counted. Pansy peeled off the rest of her wet clothes and climbed into the bath, beckoning Hermione to join her.

They nestled together, Hermione’s back pressed against Pansy’s breasts, in near silence as the hot water soothed them. Then, stimulated by the heat, arousal returned in warm waves. Pansy’s left hand delved between Hermione’s thigh, while her right tugged insistently upon a hardening nipple.

“I want to fuck you...” Pansy growled into Hermione’s ear, making her shudder with desire.

There was a sudden splashing commotion as they moved, Hermione was now on her knees in the water, Pansy behind her, fingers probing at her sex. The water had relaxed her, but washed away her natural lube. Pansy saw a bottle of baby oil within reach, and grabbed it. Slick as a seal’s flipper, Pansy’s fingers massaged the oil into the swelling folds until Hermione was whimpering with need. One finger, delving easily, then two... ragged gasps... the third finger was even better. Hermione had never felt so open, so needy... Pansy added her little finger, and found a welcome for that too. Hermione was moaning loudly now, her hips humping and writhing onto Pansy’s strengthening thrusts. A thumb swirled over her clit, and she let out a low quavering note.

“I need more... I need all of you inside me!” She gasped, her voice thick and urgent, barely knowing what she was saying.

Pansy wasn’t entirely sure she was correct in surmising what her lover craved, but she was willing to take a chance. She squeezed more oil onto her fingers, and this time she pressed all of them into the holy arch of Hermione’s pussy. The desire to be raw, dirty, in command overcame Pansy.

“This is your cunt... I’m doing this to your hot little cunt...” she growled as she thrust harder, twisting her slim, strong hand, feeling Hermione’s increasing willingness, the resistance melting away. With her other hand she rhythmically caressed the girl’s engorged clit

“Do it... fuck me... fuck... my... cunt!” Hermione gasped, deep inside Pansy’s game already, her mind freed to utter the previously obscene word by the weekend of wondrous sex that had preceded this moment.

She took a deep breath, and when she exhaled she tried to relax everything. And it happened. A few seconds of a sweet aching pain as Pansy’s knuckles passed though her entrance, and then a sensation of fullness that made her even more breathless. She wasn’t sure that what they were doing even had a name, but she knew it was right and fitting, that if this was the last time they made love it would be something so unique. When Pansy began to fist fuck her, Hermione lost her mind entirely.

They didn’t notice the door swing silently open, or see the red-haired man standing there for long seconds, baffled then enraged, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, trying to make a sound of deep pain. As orgasm seized her in its fierce jaws, Hermione’s eyes flew open and she saw Ron, her friend, her lover, her fiancé, silhouetted by the light from the landing. Her world as she knew it came to an end.

He had decided to return early as a nice surprise for his girlfriend. She had sounded so low-key on the phone yesterday, he thought she was missing him badly. Whoops. Ron stumbled back and slammed the door behind him, feeling like he’d been stabbed in the heart. Hermione screamed as she dragged herself from Pansy’s hand and leaped from the bath. She grabbed a bathrobe from the back of the door and tried to scramble her arms into it as she gave chase to her future husband. She caught up with him in the back yard, where he stood swaying, tears pouring down his cheeks.


	4. Race to the bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this it? Is there a way back?

“Fuck everything to hell!” Pansy swore furiously, and smashed her fists onto the sides of the bath.

Now it was completely messed up, irretrievably and forever. She wasn’t angry with Ron, or even Hermione, but herself. She had been so wrong, so terribly wrong to mess with Hermione Granger, and now look what she had done. She’d tasted forbidden fruit, fallen in love with a Muggle, and not just any Muggle, but one of the heroes of the resistance, and an almost married woman. Of course Hermione would choose Ron, he had never bullied or misused her, he was her longtime soulmate, everyone knew that. She clambered from the bath, tugged on her tee shirt and pants over wet skin, reached for her wand, and disapparated back to docklands before she made any more mistakes.

“Ron… I’m so sorry… I still feel the same way about you... My love for you hasn’t changed!” Hermione pleaded. Ron wouldn’t let her near, stepping back as she moved towards him.

It was raining again, so their tears joined the water flowing down their distraught faces.

“Please… please come back inside… let me talk to you.”

It said something of the incredible depth of his feelings for Hermione that Ron actually looked up, and met her eyes.

Hermione knew she would do anything not to hurt Ron anymore, anything to make it better, to somehow cancel out what he had just seen, what he now knew about her. It was going to be the hardest job she had ever faced.

“You were completely gone… you didn’t even know I was there. You’ve never looked like that with me,” he raged. The sight of her utter abandonment to Pansy’s obscene act had shocked hm to the core of his being.

Hermione had no answer to that, Ron was completely right, she could only look at him with all her regret and sorrow making her eyes overflow yet again. How could she explain when she understood so little herself?

“Please... come inside... I’ll do anything to make it right again, whatever you want... just tell me what to do!” She begged.

He let her take his hand and lead him back indoors.

“Are you a lesbian now?” Ron rasped, tearing off his soaking wet shirt.

“How long have you known me? What do you think?” Hermione replied, stalling as best she could because it was another question she couldn’t answer, because she didn’t know what was true anymore. Did one weekend of torrid passion make her gay? Or was it just a one off thing, an aberration that could be forgotten in time. She needed to talk to Ginny, to find out how she felt when Harry discovered he was bisexual, when she told him that she liked girls, too. But she needed to talk to this lovely man more, to comfort him, to prove she still loved him.

“How long has this been going on?” Ron asked.

At last, a question she could answer honestly.“Just this weekend, I swear, I met Pansy a few weeks ago when I was out with Ginny. I agreed to have a drink with her. That was very wrong of me. I had no idea…”

“So it’s Ginny’s fault, that stupid little bitch messing with your life… just wait until I see her!” Ron roared,his rage returning.

“NO RON, it’s me… it’s me… I don’t even understand it myself, Ginny had very little to do with it. And now… it’s over… I’ll call her now… I’ll text her!” Hermione grabbed her phone, desperate to prove her intentions.

“That’s not good enough…” Ron quietened down, Hermione could see his brain working. She anticipated his answer, and began to cry again.

“You’ll go there, in person… you’ll tell her face to face. And I’ll go with you… I’ll wait outside. And if you tell me it’s over then, after you’ve seen her, I’ll believe you.” He said, huffing the words out because his emotions were so ramped up he could barely speak.

“Now? You want us to go now? I’ll just have shower and get dressed.”

“No… tomorrow morning… in the cold light of day, when you’ve had time to think about it, and really mean it.” He grated harshly, still shaking with rage.

He had no idea how cruel that was, to make her wait, but she accepted his conditions without comment or protest.

Hermione offered to sleep on the sofa. She didn’t sleep at all.

They travelled just how Hermione and Pansy had on Sunday evening, by tube and train. Ron didn’t like apparating much, and he didn’t trust Pansy to not hex her fireplace. Anyway, he didn’t want to go inside her flat for fear of destroying it. A stranger seeing them would immediately have recognised the pain in their eyes, the puffiness from too much crying, the anger from the man, the remorse from the woman. A stranger would have seen that and looked away to save themselves from their own sadness.

Hermione tried to walk briskly from the station to the door of Pansy’s building, but her footsteps faltered the nearer they came. This morning the Victorian warehouse looked forbidding rather than welcoming. Inevitably they reached the steps to the entrance. Hermione remembered the entry code for Pansy’s apartment, because it was her birthday backwards, and Pansy’s initials, P979071P. Pansy told her she’d changed it in her honour on Saturday morning. Even so, she fumbled it twice, because Ron was watching her like a malignant hawk. She was frightened that if she rang the buzzer Pansy wouldn’t let her up. She climbed the stairs with legs like lead, and paused, taking a deep breath before knocking at the apartment door itself. She couldn’t just burst in, it would be too cruel.

There was no reply, but Hermione pressed the handle down anyway, and the door swung open. Pansy was sitting on the floor near the fireplace, knees under her chin, a bottle of Firewhiskey in her right hand, a cigarette in her mouth, her eyes squinting redly through the smoke. She looked more exhausted than drunk.

“I know why you’ve come,” she rasped in a voice roughened by howling her pain for hours.

“I didn’t want to, but I’ve got to.” Hermione spoke in a voice so small it almost vanished.

“Say it then… say what you need to say.”

“I… I don’t know how…”

“Yes you do… and it’s going to hurt like hell, and you won’t know if it was the right thing to do for a long time. I know how you feel, ‘cos I feel that way too, but that doesn’t help, does it?”

“No, it makes it worse… Pansy… I have to finish this. I don’t want to, but I have to. There’s too much….”

“Run away with me… now’s your chance.”

Hermione’s tears were unstoppable. “Don’t… please… don’t make it harder.” She sobbed, dropping to her knees in front of Pansy.

“Goodbye Pansy… I’ll always…”

“Don’t say it… I can’t bear it,” Pansy choked.

Hermione kissed Pansy softly on her forehead, and rose unsteadily to her feet. She could barely see her way to the door.


	5. All You Can Do Is Try...

Ron had the sensitivity to say nothing. Even though he knew the enormous effort it must have taken for Hermione to do what she had done to end things, he was still shocked to see how devastated she was at losing Pansy. How could she feel so much for that bloody woman (and why a woman? What in Merlin’s name had happened to her? Had Parkinson cursed her?) when she’d been with her for such a short time? Would she ever feel that way about him? He thought, and then he realised she must do already, and more, because of what she had just put herself through for him. She had chosen him over this dark intruder, and that surely stood for something. He promised himself that he would try not punish her in any way for her affair, because that would surely drive her away. His jealousy of Viktor Krum had almost done that, once upon time. He vowed to be patient, and act as if she was recovering from a serious illness.

On the tube, on the way back to Tottenham Court Road, in the depth of her despair, Hermione reached for Ron’s hand. Instinctively he withdrew, then remembered his vow, gave his fiancee’s fingers a brief squeeze and let them go again. He could be kind, but it was far too soon to forgive.

For a while it was as if the light had gone out of Hermione’s life. She would find herself crying at inopportune moments, staring into space, drinking calming potions until she was dizzy. Trying not resort to booze, because it would be too easy an escape, and only make things harder in the long run. She tried to bury herself in work, but even that gave her little solace at first. Ron was the saving grace. She had never known him be so humane to a suffering creature. Kingsley Shacklebolt saw the state she was in, and inventive as ever dreamed up an new role for her that meant she would be interviewing abused House Elves two mornings a week. It gave her a purpose, a focus, and demonstrated that there were creatures far worse off than herself. Gradually she pulled out of her slough of despond, and shakily rejoined her usual pursuits. She was immensely grateful that Ron did not mention the wedding even once.

Pansy hit rock bottom a few nights after the split, when she was found drunk out of her mind on the doorstep of Mathilde’s bedsit in Camden Town. She had just blown a gig, infuriating the promoter, who informed her quite brutally that she would never work again if she carried on like that. Mathilde took her in but parried her advances.

“I am not doing anysing wiz you, cherie, apart from sobering you up,” Pansy’s ex-girlfriend told her as Pansy clumsily pawed at her tits. Mathilde saw that Pansy’s knuckles were bruised and stained with dried blood. She’d been hitting walls again, something she was prone to when drunk and angry. Mathilde bathed her hands and put her to bed.

“I love her… I can’t help it, I really love her… I know she loves me, but…” Pansy slurred

“Wiz you, Pansy, zere is always a but.” Said Mathilde, not without bitterness.

“I don’ want there to be… you an’ me… we could… you know.. for old times’ sake?”

“No Pansy, I have learned to say no, sanks to you, and now I mean it. Sleep. Zat is what you need now, not to disappoint me. And yourself…” She had made Pansy a strong sleeping potion, and made sure she drank it all.

“I wish I’d loved you as much as I love her,” Pansy whispered, and that was the closest to an apology that Mathilde was ever likely to receive from Pansy Parkinson.

Still feeling numb, but much more normal, Hermione soldiered on, and gradually Ron thawed too. He had been remarkably understanding in many ways, but physically he was still withdrawn, and she missed him badly. She could live without sex for a while longer, though she was willing to try, for his sake, whenever he felt ready, but it was the cuddles and the casual affectionate touches that she needed most, and they took a long time to return. If she touched him, he would jump as if scalded, and would then pretend nothing had happened. She really couldn’t go on like that forever. Their friends noticed. Ginny and Harry especially.

Hermione tried to talk to Ginny. She told her a little of what had happened, and about the agonising split with Pansy. But it hurt too much, and Ginny’s blunt advice was unwelcome. She was almost glad when her closest girlfriend was recalled to Quidditch training. Harry’s sympathy came with less conditions. He just wanted his best friends to get back on track as soon as possible. Then he was called away to a major investigation into a Death Eater cult in Chicago, and she lost his ear for several weeks. Many others suspected, but none of them actually knew what had afflicted the golden couple.

At last, shyly, Ron began to touch her hand again, and then to seek the warmth of her back, in bed. Hermione was filled with hope. She needed him very much. The memories of Pansy were always with her, but attention from Ron, the right kind of attention made her blossom, and she could live with the pain a little better. She realised that she needed her feelings for Ron to be reinforced, even though she felt she had no right to ask. Despite her crime against their relationship, she yearned for some tenderness. And finally Ron was almost ready to give it.

A Sunday evening in October. They had been together all day, stocktaking in the shop, a long messy job. They were tired but satisfied. Everything added up, the task was successfully completed. George would be pleased. Hermione decided to take a bath, Ron wanted a shower, so they were both in the bathroom, naked. As Hermione settled in the hot water, she realised that Ron was looking at with desire in his eyes, his cock semi-turgid in his hand. She flushed and wriggled pleasurably.

“Join me?” She asked, simply.

Ron grinned, Hermione scooted towards the tap end so that Ron could climb in behind her. She squirmed into his chest and felt impudent poke of his cock in the small of her back. She smiled to herself. He was there again, her rude ginger fringed pal who had pleasured her so ably for years. She sat forwards, slid an arm between their bodies, and grasped him. Ron groaned and shuddered so hard she feared he was coming to soon, but she loosened her grip and he held on, biting into the back of her neck, making her gasp. It was good, spontaneous, exciting after so long... moments later they were out of the bath, and Hermione was braced against the washbasin, smiling back at Ron, enjoying his pleasure.

Ron touched Hermione’s pussy, and she was wet, they both moaned with relief.He still excited her... his desire surged, and he slowly eased his cock into her. It felt delicious. She pushed back onto him and her legs quivered. He thrust, holding her hips smiling to himself blissfully. His patience had paid off. Hermione was his again.

She was fine while her eyes were open, while she saw Ron’s face in the mirror over her shoulder, intense, glowing, his laughing eyes... when her eyelids fluttered shut, it was immediately Pansy behind her, fucking her passionately, and it was an entirely different feeling, a sensation that reached deep into her soul, and with it came the terrible knowledge that she had denied to herself for weeks. About herself, her sexuality, and about who she really loved.

Now the secret was out, and she couldn’t bear him inside her for a moment longer. It broke her heart but she had to pull herself away, abandoning his embrace, his cock, his love for her, and hers for him, because it was a lie to pretend she could love anyone as much as she now understood that she loved Pansy Parkinson. She burst into tears of shame and despair, and hugged herself miserably. She had lost both of them, destroyed so much that was good, all because she and Ginny went for a drink in Pink Lips.

Ron was in a physical shock, too many contradictions and emotions at such a moment. He could not comprehend at first. He held Hermione loosely as she wept, feeling sad for her, because of her tears. Then it sank in. It was over. This was it. They’d known each other for fifteen years. They’d been lovers since the War. But the wedding?! He knew with awful finality thar there would be no wedding for Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.

With incredible restraint for a man with an occasionally dangerous temper, Ron pushed Hermione gently away, and tottered from the bathroom to the living room. Everything was the same. Everything was different. Nothing would ever be the same again. The cliches were all true. Ron had imagined this moment or one very like it, frequently since that dreadful summer storm evening, but the shock of it becoming a reality was still nuclear. He was shaking and crying as he tugged off his half of the pair of rings they had bought each other to celebrate their engagement, and placed it in the middle of the coffee table.

He dressed as if on automatic pilot, there was only one thing he could think to do, one person who wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t ask questions, who would take him in regardless of time or circumstances. He found his old rucksack in the back of the wardrobe and packed some clothes, enough for a day or two. He’d send for the rest. When his bag was full he returned to the bathroom. Hermione was still in front of the mirror, face swollen, eyes stinging, rocking, grieving in an agony of remorse. Ron could see it all, she wasn’t hard to read. In a detached way, he felt sympathy for her, but what he had to offer, she wanted no longer, and no matter how he felt about her, that was not going to change. He had loved her with everything he could, but then she met Pansy Parkinson again, and now he had nothing left to give.

“I’m going to Harry’s, you can stay here as long as you need to. I’ll owl George.”

His throat closed so tight he could hardly breathe. He couldn’t say goodbye.

A hazy image of Ron receded into the distance, when it reached the fireplace, it’s hand took a pinch of Floo powder from the box. The figure stepped into the hearth and with a green flash, he was gone. For the first time in her life Hermione Granger was entirely alone. Her parents were still in Australia, her friends were all Ron’s friends. The Weasleys were going to hate her, every single one of them. She had rejected Pansy. There’d been gossip about Pansy and a dancer. If she had moved on, who could blame her?

Her mind ran around like a panicking hamster, frenetic, trivial thoughts, mind-wrenching surmises. It hurt her most that she had rejected Ron at such a crucial moment, that she had hurt his manhood, emasculated him, as well as robbing him of the future they had planned. She would try to move out as soon as possible. She wondered for a second only whether the roving Ministry job was still vacant. Shivering in the aftermath of the silent explosion, with the chill of standing wet and naked for an hour, and the freeze she now applied to her aching heart, she slipped on a bathrobe, poured a large glass of wine and curled up on the sofa, drafting mental letters she would never put on parchment, never send, trying to explain what had gone wrong, and failing. Trying to apologise, even trying to start again.

Then she saw the ring upon the table. Incontrovertible physical evidence that Ron had given up the fight, and it was time for her to stop trying to deny her own nature. In a quiet, resigned sort of way, Hermione twisted the engagement ring from the third finger of her left hand, laid it next to Ron’s, and came out, as a lesbian, to herself.


	6. Six Months Later

She was patient. She had never been so patient. She had never worked so hard either, recording her new songs, the rich creative seam that Hermione Granger had opened was in full flood. They weren’t all songs of sorrow and loss, though there were more of those. There were songs of the joy she remembered, too. It was a more mature and sober Pansy who fought with her producer for the sound she wanted, with her label, over her change of direction. She promised the promoters that they would still get their show, but it would be darker, more personal, more complex. They were forced to trust her. They wanted a single, a hit song to launch her to the next level. She had exactly what she thought they needed. She called it Pink Lips, because that’s where it really began. There were two versions of the song, one with the studio playing its part in full, making an anthem that built to a pounding dance floor crescendo. The other was just Pansy’s voice and acoustic guitar, recorded as simply as it had been played one summer evening, to the girl who had inspired it. Maybe if someone heard the dance version while drowning their sorrows in a club, or the quiet one, murmuring softly from the late night radio, maybe that someone would understand, and a very special someone might even be moved to respond.

Hermione was waiting to see Kingsley, expecting to deliver the report from her first big trip round Eastern Europe. His previous meeting was over-running badly. Hermione accepted the offer of pumpkin juice from his secretary, Hugo. When he returned, he dropped the week’s magazines, and that day’s Daily Prophet onto the table next to the armchair where Hermione was sitting. She sipped her juice and picked up Witch Weekly guiltily. It wasn’t her sort of magazine at all, but once in a while she couldn’t resist a peek. Slightly bored already, she flicked from page to page, not engaged in the slightest until...

With her trademark black bobbed helmet of hair and blood red lips, wearing that tailored tuxedo suit, white shirt and loose skinny tie... a fashion spread and interview with Pansy Parkinson, crossover sensation.

Up it boiled from where she’d forced it down, all the feelings, the longing, the pain, and at that moment Kingsley appeared in the door of his office, and she had to swallow it all back down, which took a superhuman effort. The Minister knew something was wrong, but he didn’t interrupt her slightly breathless recitation of facts, figures, and analysis. He commended her thoroughness, thanked her, and asked her if everything was okay. She smiled wanly, shook her head, and almost ran from building. She had just enough presence of mind remaining to Floo back to the flat before letting go. Hours later, all cried out, looking out of the darkened living room down to the dim lantern lit cobbles of Diagon Alley below, the silence began to encroach upon her, muffling her senses like cotton wool, so she switched on Ron’s old-fashioned wizard radio for comfort...

For sentimental reasons, Pansy hadn’t changed her key code since THAT weekend. When she heard the street door open and close, and hurrying footsteps on the stairs, her heart performed a somersault. For a change, her instincts had been absolutely right.


	7. Epilogue

“I told them, at the Ministry... I mean they kind of knew already, but now they know officially, about you. And me.” said Hermione, sitting opposite Pansy at Florian’s, which had lately become something of a gay destination in increasingly cosmopolitan Diagon Alley. When Pansy was in town, she often met Hermione there for a quick coffee after her lover finished work. That made Florian very happy. Pansy Parkinson’s custom had a distinct social and economic boost, thanks to her hit album, named after the single that spawned it, Pink Lips.

“What did you tell them? How much?” Asked Pansy curiously, her right thumb caressing the back of Hermione’s left hand.

“Everything,” Hermione replied, with a naughty smile and a pretty blush.

“I love you so much.” Pansy croaked.

“I know.” Hermione’s smirked.

“Still the smug little know it all?”

“But of course. And what are you going to do about it?” Hermione jutted her chin rebelliously.

Pansy’s fingers tightened around her wrist, and a familiar feline growl emerged from the singer’s throat. Their eyes met, the eternal smoulder of their gaze burst into flame.

Florian Fortescue smiled and left their bill on the table. They wouldn’t be staying long. They rarely did.


End file.
